I think my children are trying to kill me. A slow, painful demise brought about by copious amount of screaming and whining and crying and yelling. The noise crawls in my ear and burrows itself into my brain like those worms from Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan.
It’s gotten to the point where unless there is blood or broken bones, I won’t even go into whatever room the mayhem is happening. It’s sad, I know. I’m the mom. I should have some control of this, right?
But in reality, I’d rather plug up my ears with my ipod and listen to something other than the screams. Unfortunately, that doesn’t always work. The screaming and the whining and the crying and the yelling seem to follow me.
Being in public doesn’t change things, either. It would seem that it has become Monkey’s hobby to see just how far she can push Little Man to make him scream at her while I’m glaring at the both of them, mentally weighing the pros and cons of duct tape and velcro.
Ahhh, the joys of parenthood in the summer…